Letters To The Darkness
by Guardian-381
Summary: An unsent letter from Florian to Noir causes both of them to examine their relationship more closely.
1. The Unsent Letter

Disclaimer: I own no part of Gorgeous Carat.

Letters to the Darkness

I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was four years old. I always relate the cessation of that fear to the servant who, upon seeing me too fearful to walk the halls by candlelight, said, "The dark can't hurt you. Sometimes, it hides things that can, but you know what it's hiding here. Everything in it belongs to you."

I wonder if that's why I'm afraid of you sometimes. I can't always tell what's going on inside of you.

You have so many facets, like an expertly-cut jewel. I wonder, perhaps, if it's your mixed heritage that attracted you to such a massively divided lifestyle, but perhaps that's too easy an explanation. You're so mature, but you can be so childish; you're dignified, but there are moments during which you seem to have no sense of propriety. You have never failed to protect me when it counted, and some of the sweetest words I remember hearing were spoken by you, but I can't forget the pain of your whip, or the dark potential beneath your polished surface.

Noir: that's the name you chose for yourself. Does it signify the fact that you're a stranger, even to yourself, or is it simply further proof that your practiced aura of mystery has but one intended function: to keep the rest of us as far away from you as possible?

I wonder if I'll ever learn that answer.

When I first arrived, I hated you, and made no secret of it. You were, to the aristocratic values my mother had implanted in me, absolutely repulsive. Sometimes, I still feel that way, but it happens less and less often, and never as intensely. Most of the time, I'm not sure what I feel about you. Sometimes, I doubt I feel anything at all.

Like the darkness, you're confusing.

I think it was Laila that convinced me to give you a chance, though not through any direct action on her part. Living here, I couldn't help but realize how much she loved you, and so I reasoned that, if someone so innocent could find something in you worth dying for, I must have been missing at least part of your true nature. So, I started watching you, committing every detail of you to memory, as I used to do with the Rochefort manor's furnishings. I started listening to what you said, and thinking about it once you were through speaking, rather than automatically defying you.

It was likely more of a defence mechanism than anything else, but I believe it also taught me some things about you.

Above all, you're tough, like overcooked meat. Left alone, I believe you might become the monster all of Paris thinks you, but that's not something I plan to live to see. You also have a strong sense of justice: though you are easily the most selfish man I have ever met, you still try to avoid hurting those who don't deserve it. Though I may not always agree with your ends, I can usually respect your means.

You often look as though you're in pain, especially while you're reading. Sometimes, it seems like simple concentration, but I don't think that's the case. I've come so close to asking you what's wrong so many times, but I always stop myself. You're so fiercely proud that, if you knew I had noticed that something was bothering you, you'd take steps to hide it, and I don't want that. I always want you to feel as though you can be yourself around us, whoever that is.

Besides, what right to I have to pry into your feelings? Who am I? It's not any of my business. At least, that's what I always imagine you telling me, whenever I imagine myself asking. So, I keep my mouth shut, and look the other way.

I don't need to be reminded of my position in your life.

Sometimes, I wonder why you don't just write off my debts and turn me out of the house. I seem to bring you nothing but trouble. Either I get lost, or kidnapped, or wounded… in your world, I'm the very definition of a liability. Why do you bother, time and again? Wouldn't it be simpler to just let me die? It's not like the debts really matter to you.

Every time I start thinking like this, I hear your voice, as clearly as though you're right next to me. "Don't lose your backbone, Florian," you say. "I only want precious jewels." The threat behind those words restores my courage instantly, every time. _If you turn into a whimpering fool_, it says, _he won't be able to stand you any longer_.

Most of the time, I can only be brave because I'm so terrified of being cast out of your life.

That's why you can't ever be allowed to read this. It would reveal too much of my weakness, too much of myself. I'm certain that if you knew what I felt, who I really am, you wouldn't be able to stand the sight of me. I really would lose your respect, and to lose that might be to lose far more.

I wonder when I became so dependent on your approval. Perhaps it's not that at all, but simple curiosity. Perhaps I simply want to be around you long enough to decipher your mystery, to meet whoever lives in the space between Ray and Noir, and to, by extension, make his existence more bearable.

On some level, I think I'll always be scared of the darkness. However, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop chasing what lives inside it.


	2. Accidental Trespasses

Dedication: This story is for astraplain, with gratitude for her readership and honest feedback. Astra, here's my humble offering to the Gorgeous Carat fandom. I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 2: Accidental Trespasses

Noir

I turn the paper over in my hands absently, folding and re-folding it along its slightly uneven creases. Theoretically, I shouldn't be holding this; I shouldn't even know it exists. If Florian knew I had it, he'd probably come at me with a fire poker. Or, far worse, run away again.

Then again, if he never wanted me to see this letter, why did he hide it instead of destroying it?

Admittedly, it was hidden well, tucked into the scraps of an old wallet and buried underneath the shirts in the middle drawer of his dresser. I never would have found it if I hadn't been missing my favourite tie, and Laila hadn't suggested that she might have mixed it up with Florian's things somehow. Still, it's not like I was snooping, or anything. I found it completely by accident. Well, near enough completely.

Of course, he'll never believe that.

I sigh, exhaling a lungful of smoke in the process, and toss the letter onto my desk. Ordinarily, I'd wait for the first opportunity to confront him with it, and bait him until he got angry enough to react, whether by storming out or hitting me. In this case, however, there's no way I can do that.

He's right: I'm not a monster yet.

But I can't ignore it either. I can't just slip it back into his dresser before he comes home and pretend I never found it. It's too… personal? Tempting? Important? I frown. Despite my voracious appetite for literature, my vocabulary seems to be deficient.

Maybe I don't know the right word for this situation because I've never had to use it.

I unfold the letter, and scan it again, though I've nearly got it memorized. Why did he write this? Why does he care about any of this stuff? More importantly, how much of it is sincere, and how much is just part of the junk that appears in all stream-of-consciousness writing? How am I supposed to know, either way?

And even if all of it is sincere, what does it mean?

I lean back in my chair and set my cigar down in the ashtray. If I could dismiss this letter, and the feelings it seems to contain, I would have done it already, as soon as I had read through it. Because I can't, therefore, I have to do something. I have to take steps to clarify his impression of me. How can I do that, though, without letting him know I've seen the letter?

I kick the side of the desk in the act of crossing my legs. Why is this so difficult? I begin tapping my fingers against the base of the inkwell. If I try talking to him about it, I'm liable to say something too harshly, or become impatient… and that would only make everything worse.

I study the first line of Florian's elegant yet cramped handwriting, and a potential answer comes to me. Why not write him a letter of my own? That way, I'll be guaranteed not to make a mistake; if I do, I can just crumple it up and start over. Besides, he might prefer reading a letter to having a face-to-face discussion thrust upon him.

Then again, that doesn't solve the problem of letting him know I read his in the first place.

I growl, and reach for a sheet of blank paper. To Hell with it. It's my house, after all: if I want to search the entire place four times a day, what does he have to say about it? As soon as this thought flashes through my head, I stop and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. Isn't that precisely the kind of atmosphere that I'm trying to dispel?

I clear my throat, and dip my pen into the inkwell. _Dear Florian_, I write across the top of the page, and set the pen down as I watch the ink dry. The greeting seems so formal, so dry, so… empty. I scratch out the 'Dear', but now it looks curt, almost cold. Definitely not the tone I want to set when I'm already on thin ice.

The ridiculousness of my situation strikes me in the next moment, and I crumple the paper as tightly as I can before I drop it into the elaborately-carved wastebasket beneath my desk. This isn't going to work. If I can't even get past the salutation, I'll never get through the whole letter. But how else can I approach Florian without putting him on the defensive?

I collect my cigar from the ashtray, place it against my lips, and inhale. This could take a while, but I don't mind. I always have enjoyed a challenge.

---

Florian

I set the tightly-sealed package of books on the end table in the entryway before brushing the snow from my coat, taking care not to allow any to fall on the carpet which begins a perilous few feet away. Recently, Noel walked across it in wet boots no more than fifteen minutes before Noir was scheduled to entertain a prospective client; the look on Noir's face when he came out of his study was almost worth the week he spent fuming about it afterward.

One session of that was more than enough, though, which is why I've been extremely careful to avoid making a similar mess ever since.

"Welcome back, Florian!" Laila calls from the doorway of the drawing room as I'm changing into my indoor shoes, and I wave at her as she half runs, half skips over to me. "Did you get it?"

I retrieve the package from the end table, break its seal, and remove the thinnest of the books within it. "Beginner's Cooking: Starting From Scratch," I read from the front cover before I hand the book to her. "That's it, right?"

She nods vigorously. "Yes, thank you, Florian!" A grin spreads over her face as she begins flipping through it. "Jeanne said she'd let me make the side dish for tonight's dinner, and I remembered seeing a great recipe for roast potatoes in this book, but I just didn't have time to go out and get it." She closes the book and looks back at me. "I really appreciate it."

I chuckle at the thought of how much cajoling it must have taken for Laila to get Noir's cook to let her anywhere near the dinner preparations. "It wasn't any trouble. Noir's running low on books again, so I was going there anyway." I crane my neck to look past her. "Is he in his study?"

Laila glances over her shoulder. "I think so. He was there last time I checked." She turns back to me, and winks. "Can't help you look for him if he isn't, though. I have to get started!" Her voice becomes a whisper. "Don't tell Noir anything, okay? I want his reaction to be honest."

"I won't. I promise." I begin to walk towards the study. "Good luck."

"Hey, I don't need luck. It's all about skill." She opens the book on her way back to the drawing room, and I hear her muttering something about flour.

I shake my head as I knock on the closed door of the study. The noise of paper rustling covers what may or may not have been an invitation to enter, and I shrug as I open the door and step inside.

"Am I disturbing you, Noir?" I ask, leaving the door open slightly in case the answer is 'yes'.

Noir glances up from his desk, his omnipresent cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, and shakes his head. "What is it, Florian?"

I hold up the package of books long enough for him to see it before I place it on top of the two books he still has left to start on. "I noticed that you were running a bit low on reading material, so I went out for some." I smile. "I hope you haven't read them already. It's almost impossible to keep up with you."

His eyebrows lift, almost excitedly, and I suppress a grin. "What are they about?"

"They're novels that just came out. I think one of them is a mystery, and the other one's a society drama. In any case, the manager told me that they were very popular, so I assume they're decent."

He exhales, and smoke obscures his face briefly. "Thank you. I appreciate the thought."

"You're welcome." I cross the room to stand at the window behind his desk. "Busy day?"

"Not really." I hear him shift in his chair.

"That must be a nice change of pace. You've spent the entire week locked up in here. I think you may actually be getting prison pallor." I press my hand against the frozen windowpane, heedless of the potential smudging. "Why don't we go outside for a while? It's snowing, but it's not that cold."

"No, thanks." He pauses, then adds, "Haven't you just been outside?"

I turn away from the window to face his curious gaze. "Yes, of course, but I wouldn't mind going out again."

He clicks his tongue. "You should stay inside, where it's warm. Where's your common sense?"

Despite his severe tone, I laugh. "It's not exactly Siberia out there, Noir."

"Maybe not, but you get sick easily. I'd rather not have to nurse you through another fever." He turns away, and begins scratching at what seems to be a randomly-chosen piece of paper with a dry pen.

"Writing is generally easier if you use the ink as well," I point out helpfully.

Noir curses under his breath and jabs his pen into the inkwell so savagely that tiny dots of ink splash over his desk. "You're distracting."

"I'm sorry," I reply insincerely, my voice quivering with repressed laughter. "Would you prefer that I left?"

"I didn't say that." He abandons his pen, places his cigar in the ashtray, and stands up. "I need to talk to you, actually."

"Is something the matter?" I lean against the wall beside the window frame.

He takes a step forward, and my gaze follows the path of his hand as he raises it to brush my cheek, very gently. "Florian…" he breathes. "You trust me, right?"

I watch him with slight apprehension, unsure whether he's planning to tear my shirt open again. "That's a very loaded question."

"Which you seem to be avoiding." His hand moves up to tuck stray locks of hair behind my ear.

I flinch slightly, and hope he doesn't notice. "Not at all. I'm just not sure where you're going with it." I sigh. "Of course I trust you, Noir."

"Then--" A thunderous clatter, followed by Jeanne's shrieking, interrupts him, and I hear Laila trying to shout over the cook's rage.

"What's going on?" Noir asks, almost in a growl.

I step around him quickly, interposing myself between him and the door. "I'll take care of it." He tries to speak again, but I hold up my hand. "We can talk later. I promise." Without giving him a chance to respond, I duck into the hallway and begin walking toward the kitchen as fast as I can.

The next crashing noise I hear seems to come from Noir's study, but I dismiss it as a trick of the mansion's acoustics.


	3. Bedtime Stories

Author's Note: Thank you to all of the people who are following this story. Whether you review or not, I appreciate your time immensely.

Chapter 3: Bedtime Stories

Noir

I spend the hour until dinner is served waiting for Florian to return; he doesn't, and so I answer the dinner bell's summons in one of my fouler moods. The dining room is empty when I arrive, and I throw myself into the chair at the head of the table with a noise that is part growl, part sigh, and all frustration. _He knew that I wanted to talk to him, and he must have realized that it was something important. What excuse could he possibly have for not coming back as soon as he resolved whatever was wrong in the kitchen?_

A laugh interrupts my thoughts, and Florian enters the dining room, carrying a platter of sliced, steaming roast beef. The scent makes my mouth water even as my eyebrow twitches. _He was helping with dinner? He put that menial task over hearing what I have to say? _I catch myself glowering at him just before his attention turns to me, and quickly arrange my face into an expression of distant neutrality.

"I think this is the first time that you've arrived at dinner before me in weeks," Florian says as he sets the platter down before me. "It really mustn't be a busy day."

"I told you it wasn't." I note the fact that Laila's carrying a slightly smaller plate, but pay her no more attention.

Florian hesitates, but lets the matter drop in favour of taking the seat to my left. As I take my eyes from him, Laila sets her plate down on the table between my place and hers, and I peer down at the soggy mess it holds in slightly-annoyed confusion.

"What is that?" I ask softly.

"Potatoes," Florian supplies.

"With two kinds of cheese and tomato," Laila adds, a bit too perkily.

_That explains the traces of red. _I flick my eyes up to Laila, and can almost sense her shiver. It's obvious that she must be responsible for this, and her good-intentioned-yet-doomed attempts at cooking are the last thing I need right now. "Call Jeanne out here. This is unacceptable." I've told her over and over that Laila is not to be allowed anywhere near the kitchen during meal preparations; perhaps reprimanding her in a less private context will help my point come across more clearly.

Florian clears his throat. "That's impossible. I sent her home early."

This time, I make no effort to keep from glaring at him. "You don't have that authority."

He sits up a bit straighter in his chair. "Her work was done. Dinner and dessert are prepared, and she's not responsible for the after-dinner cleanup until tomorrow morning. There was no reason to make her stay." I see my irritation reflected in his face. "It's also more difficult for her to make her way home during the winter. You need to consider such things, Noir: your servants are human beings as well. Besides, you're getting ready to make a scene over something you haven't tasted yet."

"I don't need to taste it: the presentation is revolting enough." I set my hand down on the table's edge, somewhat threateningly. "And how dare you insinuate that I treat my servants like slaves."

"I implied no such thing. I was merely stating--"

"Please, enough!" Laila interjects, and I turn to glare at her instead, though less intensely. Some of her resolve leaves her under my scrutiny, but she still manages to continue. "I'm sorry, but… I just wanted us all to have a nice dinner together. If the potatoes are such a big deal, I'll take them away." Before I can respond, she picks up the plate and begins to rise.

"May I have some before you go?" Florian asks in his sweetest, most conciliatory tone, and I direct my gaze to the table. I envy him this ability, to distance himself from his anger, to keep it directed at the appropriate party. I've lost count of how many times I've hurt those who cared about me in a rage that they had no part of.

I watch Laila spoon some of the potatoes into Florian's dish with a half-hearted smile, and clench my free hand into a fist beneath the tablecloth. "Laila."

She looks at me, with her usual light smile. "Yes?"

I push my plate forward. "Let me try some as well. There's no sense in wasting food."

Laila's smile becomes a full grin, and she spoons some of her concoction onto my plate. I nod at her even as I watch Florian in my peripheral vision. He's already on his second mouthful, and his gag reflex doesn't seem to have manifested itself. That's a good sign.

"It's not so bad," he says to me, and I wonder if he caught me watching him. "Much better than it looks."

Without further consideration, I jab at the least soggy morsel in my plate and lift it to my mouth. There's a strange spiciness about it that I can't quite place, and its texture is absolutely disgusting, but it really isn't that bad, especially considering its creator. "You're right," I say to Florian once I've swallowed, and the joyful exuberance on Laila's face is almost enough to cut through my annoyance.

"Let's move onto the main course then, before it gets cold," she suggests.

"Yes, let's," Florian says, and they both glance at me expectantly.

I serve Laila first, then Florian. As he nods his thanks, my eyes meet his, and I narrow them slightly, hoping they're conveying the proper message.

_Don't think you've escaped our conversation, Florian. I am nothing if not relentless._

Florian

After dinner, I help Laila with the dishes, as I usually do. It improves Jeanne's morale to know that she won't have to deal with them when she arrives in the morning, and it doesn't make that big a difference to Laila and I. Besides, I'm always trying to find ways to make myself useful around the mansion. I want to feel as though I've earned the right to eat every bite of food I consume, to have access to every piece of furniture in my bedroom.

I want to feel as though I've earned every moment that I get to spend by Noir's side.

Once that's out of the way, I take a bath and, dressed in my favourite pair of sky-blue nightclothes, climb into bed with a book that I borrowed from Noir's collection a few days ago, but never got the chance to start reading. It's a basic history of jewellery in folklore, and though I wouldn't usually be interested in it, I want to learn at least a bit about Noir's passion. What drives him to procure more and more of these pretty stones, when he already has everything he needs?

It might be simple greed, but I'll never believe that. Noir is far too profound to be greedy.

I manage to struggle through ten pages of the surprisingly-cumbersome text before someone knocks on my door. "Come in," I call as I place the book onto the nightstand, grateful for any distraction.

The door opens, and Noir comes in. "We never finished our conversation," he says, very directly.

"Is that what was bothering you at dinner?"

He snorts. "Well, what do you expect? I had something important to say, and you just left."

I bow my head apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm listening now. What did you want to talk about?"

Noir closes the door behind him and takes a few steps forward. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asks, and gestures to the foot of my bed with the lit end of his cigar.

"No, of course not." I shift to the opposite side of the bed as he sits down, though this bed might be big enough to seat his entire household comfortably.

He's silent for a moment or two before he admits, "I'm not sure where to begin."

"Well, downstairs, you asked me if I trusted you, and I said yes." I turn onto my side, supporting my weight on my elbow. "Noir, what's bothering you? If there's anything I can do, I…"

"You what?" he asks softly.

I meet his eyes. "I want to do everything in my power to help you."

I can nearly sense his desire to tell me something, to blurt something out, but just as he opens his mouth, the wall between us falls back into place, and all he says is my name. "Florian." His tongue moves over his lips with very uncharacteristic nervousness, and I can tell he's chosen his next words carefully. "You know some things about my past that I haven't even told Laila, like the reason why I wanted that topaz brooch so badly." He raises his cigar to his lips, inhales, and lowers his arm again. "I'm not mentioning this as leverage, but I just… I want you to realize how much I trust you."

"I do," I reply very quickly. "I've always appreciated your confidence, Noir."

"Good, because you have it." Silence descends on him again, and I wonder whether I'm expected to speak until he says, "Do you know why I trust you, Florian?"

I feel my bottom lip slacken slightly, and it takes a moment or two for me to articulate my response. "Why are you asking me this, Noir?"

"Just answer me!" he snarls. A moment later, he closes his eyes and sighs. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright." Despite my reassurance, I turn back onto my back and fold my arms in front of me protectively. "I don't know why you trust me, Noir. If you really want me to, I can guess, but your reasons have always been your own."

He inhales again, perhaps a bit too sharply. "I trust you, Florian, because you've never let me down."

I laugh. "What are you talking about? It seems that I'm always getting kidnapped, or attacked, or into some other kind of trouble." I smile as broadly as I can, and hope the expression obscures my shame well enough to keep him from noticing it.

"That's not what I mean!" he shouts. This time, the edge in his voice comes from vehemence, not rage. "Every time I've relied on you, every time I've needed you, you've been there, and you've come through for me. You always do your best for me." His free hand comes to rest on the bedspread, and I watch his fingers dig into the fabric. "Do you have any idea how rare that is? Do you know how highly I value you because of it?"

I stare at him, noting every tensed muscle as evidence of his sincerity. "Evidently not," I murmur. "Thank you, Noir."

He grunts. "No. Thank you." His head turns slightly, and I follow his gaze to the cover of the book on my nightstand. "Since when are you interested in that?"

I chuckle. "Well, I haven't read much about it, so I wasn't sure whether it would interest me. Besides… I thought that, if I had known more about this stuff back then, I might have been more useful to you." I lower my eyes, and train them on my sleeve. Between us, the spectre represented by the words '_back then'_ lingers, and I shake my head, as though that could be enough to dispel Azura's shade. "I guess it was stupid, wasn't it?"

Noir exhales a puff of smoke, and rises from the bed. I dare not lift my eyes until he interposes himself between me and the bedside lamp, casting me in his shadow. "Florian," he says, almost… tenderly?

"Yes?" I glance up at him. His eyes are so intense that I have to force myself not to look away again.

"I appreciate the thought, but this team only needs one walking encyclopaedia." I hear the rustling of his clothes, and suddenly his lips are against my cheek. "Good night," he whispers as he backs away, and as he begins to walk toward the door, I notice that he's taken the book with him.

"Noir," I call after him. When he stops, I say, "It's not that I don't appreciate all this, because I do. But… what brought it on?" I chuckle again, a bit nervously. "It doesn't seem like you. I'm almost afraid that you're dying, or something."

He looks over his shoulder as his hand closes over the door handle, and winks at me. "Don't worry," he says, a bit thickly. "You're stuck with me."

Those are some of the most comforting words I've ever heard.


	4. Good Intentions

Chapter 4: Good Intentions

Noir

I awaken to the sound of the wind whistling outside the library windows, and the stiffness that lingers in most of my joints reminds me that I never did make it to bed last night. Slowly, I close the book that's lying open on my chest and set it aside on the nearby table: it's the one I took from Florian's room.

I close my eyes again, this time in order to more vividly recall my conversation with Florian. It's at times like these that I wish I had a different set of gifts: that my intelligence was given to self-expression rather than craftiness, that the armour around my soul was incomplete enough to allow me some measure of sensitivity. I wish that my tools of comfort were not limited to sarcasm and reason.

At times like these, I wish that I were more like Florian.

Perhaps that's what I find so irresistible about him, what has driven me to do anything and everything possible to bind him to my side, no matter how detrimental it might have been to my other goals, or indeed to my own life. At the time, I usually gave no thought to my motives, but now I believe their nature has been revealed to me: I protected Florian because he was such a mystery to me, one I could not let go of without first having solved, or broken beyond resolution.

Then again, perhaps that hypothesis is incorrect. Perhaps it was true at one time, but is no longer appropriate. After all, I believe that I have deciphered some of Florian's mystery. I have witnessed, and been privileged to earn, his fierce loyalty; I live each day in the radiance of his unselfishness. His innocence, once an intriguing novelty, has become a precious treasure, one I would gladly die to see safeguarded. Truly, Florian Rochefort must be the last of his breed: another such man cannot exist.

And he is mine, though admittedly not in every possible sense of the word.

I frown. So, in the end, my motives boil down to possession? Is Florian really simply another jewel in my collection, differentiated from the countless others only by virtue of his sentience? If he were not so beautiful, so unique, would I still want to keep him with me, or would I have tired of him by now?

I dismiss this line of reasoning. If Florian were no longer beautiful, or unique, he would no longer be Florian.

A knock interrupts my contemplation, and I rub my eyes. "Come in."

When my hands return to the chair's armrests, I see Laila standing over me with a breakfast tray. "You fell asleep in here again, didn't you?"

"Why would you say that?" I ask, as discouragingly as I can manage.

Her eyes roll upward. "For one thing, your bed wasn't slept in. For another, you look extremely uncomfortable." She looks at me again, and smiles. "Also, you're still wearing yesterday's clothes."

I sigh. "It seems you've caught me, then." I rise from my chair with some difficulty and make my way to the table on which Laila's arranging my breakfast. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine." She holds out my cigar box.

"Maybe later," I reply to her silent question, and she sets it aside with a brief nod.

"Your mood seems to have improved since last night," she says conversationally as she begins to tidy the haphazard stacks of books littering the room back onto their shelves. She and Florian are the only ones I will trust with this task: I find nothing more aggravating than searching for a misplaced book.

"Yes," I say.

"I'm glad," she replies. "Did anything in particular contribute to that?" Her gaze crosses mine, and that brief contact inserts Florian's name into the space between us.

"I assume it was simply the benefit of a good night's rest." I sip my coffee, and frown. "It's too sweet today."

"Would you like me to get you a different cup?" she asks, pausing in the act of dragging a stepladder over to one of the bookcases.

I shake my head. "No, that's not necessary. Just let the kitchen staff know to be more careful in the future."

"Of course." A companionable silence, broken only by the noise of my cutlery against my plate, spreads out between us.

Later, as Laila's clearing the dishes away, I say to her, "The potatoes last night really weren't that bad. You're improving."

Spots of red that would likely have been invisible to any other observer tint her cheeks. "Am I that transparent?"

"I wouldn't say 'transparent'… perhaps 'genuine'." My lips tense into a hint of a smile. "It's one of your many endearing qualities."

She laughs, and the redness deepens. "You really are in a good mood today. What's happened to you?"

I shrug, and reach for a cigar. "I'm not sure. In any case, I'm just being honest."

Laila grins over her shoulder as she turns toward the door, carrying the tray. "Well, I intend to enjoy it while it lasts." She nods so deeply that the gesture nearly becomes a bow. "Thank you, Noir."

I light my cigar, inhale, and exhale. "Don't mention it."

She's right, though, I reflect once she's gone. I am acting differently. Has something about me changed since yesterday, or have I simply become more adept at expressing what was already there, and yet never voiced?

Does the exact reason matter, whatever it is?

Florian

After breakfast, from which Noir is conspicuously absent, I wander the mansion, part of me looking for something to do and part of me simply needing time to think. Unsurprisingly, there's only one thing on my mind: my last conversation with Noir. It's certainly not the first of its kind, of course: Noir has been kind before. Still, there's something different about him this time, a near-desperation, and that's what worries me.

I hope he's alright, doubly so because I know he wouldn't tell me if he wasn't.

My wandering eventually leads me to the closed door of his study, and I sigh as I lift my hand to knock. I don't intend to pry, or badger him; I only want the reassurance of his presence. There's no answer, however, and when I try the door, it opens onto an empty room. _He's not here. Could he have gone out?_

I go into the study, and close the door behind me. This room, where he spends so much of his time, is comforting in itself. I can feel his presence in every chair; each tasteful ornament is a testament to his aesthetic sense. Scraps of paper which bear his jagged handwriting litter almost every flat surface, and I rest my hand delicately on the nearest table. I feel completely at home here, though this place is so completely Noir's.

Perhaps that's exactly why I feel this way.

I drift to the fireplace, and note the time displayed by the clock on the mantelpiece: eight-thirty. Usually, Noir would have already begun working by now, but it's possible that he's still asleep. Maybe he's not feeling well today.

A sense of dread passes over me, like a spider crawling on my skin. He never really answered me last night, when I asked if he was all right. What if he actually is sick? It would be just like him to hide that from us, right up until the day we woke up to find a corpse occupying the space where he should be.

Dread gives way to panic, and my hand is already on the door handle by the time I regain my capacity for rational thought. What do I intend to do, exactly? Will I charge into Noir's room, wake him up, and demand to know what's wrong with him? All that would do is annoy him, and cause him to become even more defensive. Will I search for Laila instead, and ask her opinion? That might be a good idea, but I'm almost certain that she doesn't know anything more than I do, and it's very likely that she'll become more frantic than I am.

Despite all of this, though, I have to do something.

My eyes stray to Noir's desk, and the heaps of paper covering it. It's such a mess, but there could be some clue in there as to what's going on. In fact, the mess makes it the perfect place to hide something that he wouldn't want anyone to find, and it would be easily protected: hardly anyone but him is ever in here alone.

I turn away from the desk suddenly, disgusted with myself. What am I thinking? It's wrong to violate the privacy of someone's belongings. Is this how I mean to repay Noir's protection, by pawing through his private documents like some gossipy maid?

On the other hand, whatever I find might enable me to help him. It might even wind up saving his life. Can I walk away from this opportunity, and take my chances?

Considered in that light, the choice is obvious: I'd rather be hated by a living Noir than respected by a dead one.

I cross to the desk quickly, my sense on alert for any signal that Noir, or anyone else, is coming. Carefully, I examine the papers on the desk's surface: contracts, receipts, letters, all to do with work. The drawers, at least those which have been left unlocked, hold the same sort of documents, and nothing else.

I sigh heavily as I slide the bottom drawer shut and sit down in Noir's desk chair. How pointless. What did I expect to find, a doctor's letter diagnosing Noir with tuberculosis, or a blackmail threat? He hasn't even been coughing; he looks perfectly healthy, and he wouldn't be intimidated by anyone.

But he's acting so strangely… especially around me.

I'm not sure what attracts my attention to the small stack of credit notes in the corner of the desk. As I rise to my feet, though, something about it strikes me as out of place. Beneath the uniform whiteness of the piled documents, there's a slightly more weathered piece of paper, the dimensions of which don't match the credit notes at all.

I've come this far: what harm can there be in looking at one more sheet of paper? It's probably just another misplaced contract, anyway.

I unfold the paper gingerly, being careful not to tear it; it's been refolded several times, along slightly different lines, and could rip easily. It takes me a moment to recognize the writing on it as my own, but the words are far too vivid to mistake, and I fold it again with shaky hands before I drop it back onto the desk.

This explains everything: the loaded questions, the mood swings, the sudden sweetness. I press my fingertips to my forehead, and close my eyes. But how did he get it? There's no way he could have come across it by accident. He must have been going through my things… come to think of it, didn't he start acting strange after I got back from the bookstore yesterday?

The clock chimes nine, interrupting my thoughts, and I rise from Noir's chair slowly, my entire body tensed against an intangible threat. I straighten the stack of credit notes, as though it matters, and tuck my letter into my jacket pocket. Once that's done, I leave Noir's study and return to my own room; mercifully, I meet no one along the way.

In the dubious sanctuary of my bedroom, I take my first step into the emotional storm that's rampaging through my mind. There's shame, for being stupid enough not to destroy the letter. There's guilt, for what reading it must have done to him. There's betrayal over the fact that, after all we've been through, he doesn't seem to trust me with even the most basic privacy. There's frustration, because I have no idea what to do next.

Above all, there is doubt, far greater even than that which permeates my letter. Less than an hour ago, I had felt certain that I had begun to understand Noir, that he had become less of a mystery to me. Now, I have no idea what to believe. Was Noir so attentive last night because he was afraid of losing me? Did he really mean a word of what he said? If it was fear, then what did he want to hold on to: me, Florian, the human being, or his precious 'Amethyst'? I have no idea. I feel as though I've just arrived in this house, and I know nothing about its master.

Somewhere in the midst of this confusion, there's a hint of irony, just enough to make me smile. I got my wish, after all; I found out what was bothering Noir.

All that's left is to figure out what I plan to do about it.


	5. Because I Told You So

Disclaimer: "Because I Told You So" is the title of a song by Jonatha Brooke.

Chapter 5: Because I Told You So

Noir

According to the clock on the mantelpiece in my study, it's nine thirty by the time I arrive, dressed and fed, to begin my day's work. Though usury is often a demanding profession, requiring careful concentration and flawless precision, I usually find it relaxing.

Of course, that's not surprising. No ordinary job, no matter how stimulating, could ever compete with the pure adrenaline rush of thievery.

As soon as I sit down at my desk, a profound sense of wrongness takes over my awareness, and I freeze in the act of reaching for a pen. Slowly, my eyes move around the room, cataloguing every shadow, every sheet of strewn paper. Though nothing seems out of place, I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, that something has changed since I last sat in this chair.

And if life has taught me anything so far, it's that I should always trust my instincts.

I rise from the chair, and check each of the room's three windows. There are no signs of forced entry. My attention shifts next to the drawers of the desk, specifically those in which I keep a respectable amount of cash. They are still locked, and show no sign of having been tampered with. Finally, I look through the papers atop the desk cursorily; they seem more or less as I left them.

Perhaps, after all, I am simply being paranoid. There's no evidence whatsoever to suggest a break-in, and none of my household would have any reason to enter this room while I was absent from it. Laila and the servants have been ordered to exempt my study from their cleaning schedules, and Florian--

As Florian's image crosses my mind's eye, I glance at the pile of credit notes in which I concealed his letter, and am unable to differentiate it from the rest of the paper in the stack. With the calm that always precedes any storm, I lift the credit notes and flip through them, then scan the area immediately around their place. The letter is gone.

Or, far less alarmingly, misplaced. Perhaps I meant to hide it among the credit notes, but locked it away instead? That would have been much more sensible, now that I think of it. My fingers tremble slightly as I fit the key into the lock of one of the drawers, open it, and claw through the money inside as though it were no more valuable than trash. The letter is not there. I repeat the process with the other locked drawer, with the same result.

Muttering angrily, I begin to dig through the mess of paper littering the desktop. I really should be keeping this organized: the letter must have gotten mixed up in here, with the requests from down-on-their-luck nobility and pleas from the mission houses. It has to be on this desk. Where else could it be? Letters don't just get up and walk away.

Who could have taken it?

I assess the possibilities again. It's unlikely that one of the servants took it: in the course of the searching it would have taken to find it, they would have left far more disturbed. Laila might have covered her tracks more skilfully, but I trust her far too completely to suspect her of this. That leaves only one person, and the thought that the letter might be back in his possession chills my blood. _If Florian has it, he knows that I took it from him. But what would he have been doing in here in the first place?_ Immediately, I shake my head. I can worry about that later. Right now, I need to find out if he really does have it. My fingers begin drumming idly against the desk as I think. _What can I say, though? 'By the way, Florian, did you take that secret letter of yours back while you were rummaging through my study?' _I exhale in a half-chuckle, half-sigh. _All that'll get me is another punch in the face._

However, perhaps I won't need to ask him directly. Florian has never been good at hiding his emotions from me: they shine through his eyes, and permeate every word he says. If he took the letter back, if he knows that it was ever in my possession, he must be furious, to say the least; an emotion of that intensity should be apparent as soon as I look at him.

I rise from my chair, my day's work forgotten indefinitely. All I have to do is find Florian, and engage him in conversation. If he does have the letter, I'll defuse the situation as best I can; if he doesn't, I'll move on to the rest of the possibilities. Nothing could be simpler.

Despite this simplicity, it takes far longer than a few minutes for me to work up the nerve to actually go searching for Florian.

Florian

"So, what are you really doing here?"

I look up from the sheet that I've just finished folding, and into Laila's slightly-amused face. "I told you, I'm just helping out. There's not much else to do today."

"You know, I almost believe that, and yet…" She collects the basket into which I've placed the other articles of clothing I've folded so far, and sets it aside before bringing me an empty one. "You seem like you're hiding from something."

"Hiding?" I smile. "From what?"

"Well, that's what I'm asking, isn't it?" Laila sighs, and begins to sort through the last remaining pile of dirty laundry. I recognize some of Noir's shirts, and quickly return my attention to the heap of towels on the table in front of me. "Of course, it has something to do with Noir."

I pause. "Why does it have to be about Noir?"

"What isn't, around here?" She laughs. "Our lives revolve around him. We survive on his money, and work for his convenience. His goals are ours, whether they're lifelong desires or mere whims. We pursue them as fervently as he does, and we want nothing more than to charge along behind him, into the next adventure." She looks away from me, and her hands stop. "Maybe I should be speaking for myself. I'm sorry."

I look away as well. "That life that you describe… it feels empty, somehow."

"Do you think?" Laila resumes her task, and I return to mine. "You might be right. I don't think it's what a lot of people imagine as their ideal life. At the same time, though… I think that a life without Noir would be even emptier."

I feel my shoulders tense. "So happiness is, in the end, just the lesser of two evils?"

Laila laughs again, a bit more happily. "You're so philosophical today." She shrugs. "I think you're making it more complicated than it needs to be. As I see it, we go through our lives, and make the choices we think will make us happiest. Ideas like absolute happiness, and whether what happiness we do find is evil or not… I think those can distract us from what's important." She turns to me, and I watch her tuck a stray lock of hair back underneath her turban. "I'm not sure how much my opinion counts for, though. I mean, I can barely understand enough of Noir's books to keep them filed properly."

I shake my head, and look up at the blank wall before me. "No. I think you make a lot of sense." I smile at her, feeling somewhat more cheerful. "Your point of view is comforting, Laila."

"Well, I'm glad to be of some use," she says, and grins.

I fold three towels and a stack of facecloths before I hear Noir's footsteps in the hall outside the laundry room. My hands freeze, and I pray that he's simply passing by on his way to another part of the house; I'm not ready to face him yet. However, as my luck would have it, he stops right outside the laundry room, and suddenly he's standing right behind me. I can feel his eyes on my back, and I know that there's no avoiding him.

"Is something wrong, Noir?" Laila asks.

"Florian," he says, ignoring her. Laila returns to her work as though it doesn't matter, but I notice that her enthusiasm for her task has dampened significantly.

"Yes?" I manage to say.

"Look at me."

I hesitate, and Laila clears her throat. "I should see to the cleaning of the drawing rooms," she says feebly as she moves toward the door. "New servants started this week, and I want to make sure they're not cutting corners on the more elaborate ornaments."

"As you will," Noir says. Once she's gone, he closes the door behind her, and repeats, "Look at me."

With my mother's instinctive dignity, I set aside the folding and turn around. "What is it?" My voice is soft, bereft of any sharp or scathing quality.

Our eyes meet, and I submit to his searching gaze. After what seems like far too long, his eyes slide closed, and he sighs. "I suspected as much." His eyes snap open. "You found the letter?"

I blink confusedly. I hadn't expected him to be the one to broach the subject; I hadn't even expected him to have noticed that the letter was missing yet. Still, there doesn't seem to be any point in lying. "Yes."

For a few moments, neither of us says anything more. Finally, Noir says, "What were you doing in my study?"

The sheer irrelevance of this question compared to the apparent dozens of more pertinent inquiries streaming through my mind infuriates me. "What were you doing in my room?" I riposte.

"Looking for a tie," is his easily uttered reply.

I snort. "In an old wallet at the bottom of a drawer?"

He shrugs, and my fury trebles. How dare he be so cocky, when it was he who invaded my privacy first, and started this whole mess? "Whether you believe me or not is your business. It is the truth, though."

I look away. "I don't care." It's all I can do to keep myself under control, to keep from screaming at him or hitting him. I don't want to take any decisive action until I've figured out exactly what I want to achieve by it.

"What's the matter?" I look back at Noir, and see that his face is twisted into an expression which most closely resembles a sneer. "Now that we're talking face to face, you've got nothing to say to me? Perhaps I should get you a pen and some paper, and go get a drink. I imagine your thoughts would flow very well then."

"How dare you mock me, you…"

"You what?" he demands, and I back into the table behind me. "Which stone do you want to throw, Florian? Mongrel? Slave master?" He takes a menacing step forward, and his tone drops to a dangerous hiss. "Monster?" His eyes flash. "Go on, Florian. Tell me what you think of me. Or do you imagine I'm too weak and fragile to withstand it?"

I force myself to stare back at him, to at least weather the assault that I cannot defy. This isn't at all what I hoped to accomplish by writing that letter. I wanted to understand him, so that this would never happen again, so that I would know what to do to avoid bringing out this part of him. A phantom whip bites across the flesh of my back, and my hands dig into the table.

How deeply must I have hurt him, to have made him so angry?

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He freezes, and his rage is deadened slightly by surprise. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry. I should never have written that letter… or I should never have kept it." Some strength returns to me, and I stand up straight, leaving the support of the table behind. "I didn't mean to hurt you. All I wanted was to understand you. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me, living here, sometimes?" I take a deep breath, and he cuts in.

"Well, if you hate it so much, then leave!"

"That's not what I meant!" I shout back. "Damn it, Noir, give me a chance to explain. If you'd just confronted me with the letter in the first place, instead of trying to dance around it, things wouldn't have turned out like this. I wouldn't have had to--" I sigh. "What does it matter now, though?" He doesn't answer, and so I continue speaking. "I don't hate it here. Not at all. You should have been able to grasp at least that much from the letter. I'm just…"

"Just what?" His tone is no longer quite so dark, and I feel somewhat encouraged.

"I'm just a coward." I say at length. "I'm so insecure. I'm scared that I'll do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing, or cross a line that I should have known was there, and you won't forgive me. You'll just cast me out, and go back to the way things were before I came… however that was." My lips tense into a thin line. "It's like living on a mine field."

"Are you stupid, or something?" His voice is still forceful, but no longer belligerently so. "I've put my life on the line for you so many times. I threw handfuls of jewels into the streets to prove that you were all that mattered to me. I've fabricated debt after debt, indenture after indenture, to bind you to me, to make sure that you'd never be able to leave… and you're terrified of being thrown out?" He folds his arms over his chest, and scoffs. "What do you want me to do? How can I make it more clear to you that I want you here?"

"You never told me."

"What?"

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" I lower my voice just before the words fly from my mouth, to avoid shouting. "How was I supposed to know what you were doing all that for? Saving my life could have been a matter of pride; throwing the jewels away could just have been showing off. As for the debts…" I shrug. "I sometimes wonder whether you would have preferred things if I'd never recovered from the opium, if I were just another lifeless jewel in your collection."

"Do you really feel that way?" A different sort of darkness fills his tone this time. Is it sadness, or regret?

"Sometimes. It's hard to refute when you've never told me anything different."

"I was under the impression that actions spoke louder than words."

I sigh. "Without words to explain them, actions are open to misinterpretation."

"Evidently." His shoes scrape on the floor as he shuffles forward, hesitantly, and though I stiffen as his arms slide around me, I don't push him away. "Tell me what I have to say to make you believe me."

I fight the urge to wrap my arms around him in return, but I can't stop myself from resting my head on his shoulder. "I don't want to hear you recite things."

He sighs, and I feel his breath against my neck. "I know, and I don't want to either, but I have no idea what to say. I feel…" He pauses. "I have no idea what it feels like to love someone, Florian. I don't remember my father, and what I can recall of my mother is tainted by the weight of her reliance on me." His words begin to come more slowly, obviously exacting greater effort from him, and I place my hands gently on the centre of his back. "I think I was too much in awe of Azura to feel much beyond that, and though I care deeply about Laila, it's not as… intense as I imagine love being. It doesn't take over everything that I am… I can't imagine running away from everything I've known just to chase it." One of his hands slides through my hair, and I close my eyes, willing the sensation to last. I feel as though I could stay here forever, and it wouldn't be long enough.

"For you, though, Florian…" Noir's voice is heavy, and I feel a shiver course down my spine. "I can imagine doing anything."

My mouth is suddenly dry, and I try to swallow. "Thank you, Noir. I'm sorry… for doubting you, I mean."

"I'd rather have your doubt than blind obedience." He backs away, but only a half-step, and places his hand on my cheek. Then, he kisses me, but by the time I register the sensation, his lips are no longer touching mine. "Do you believe me now?" he asks.

"Yes," I whisper.

He chuckles. "What convinced you?"

I let him go, lean back against the table, and smile. "Hearing you say it."

His mouth twists into a smirk. "I don't think I'll ever understand you."

"Nor I you," I reply. "So I suppose we'll just have to keep trying until we get it right."

Despite my earlier conviction, the softness in his eyes really does say more than any words ever could.


	6. Precious Things

Chapter 6: Precious Things

Noir

As we rise from the dinner table that evening, I touch Florian's wrist, very lightly. "Come to my study when you have a moment," I whisper, and he nods.

As soon as the warmth of his touch leaves me, I begin to anticipate its return.

I spend the time before he arrives contemplating what passed between us this morning, as though I have not already spent most of the day doing just that. I recall the sound of his voice, the tones ranging from fury to apology; I experience again the perfection of holding him in my arms, and the supreme victory of being held in his. I taste his lips on mine, and know that they are more addictive than any drug, that Florian's intimacy could break me more thoroughly than anything else in existence.

And I couldn't care less, because I love him.

I examine that idea, swirling it around my mind like a mouthful of wine. Yes, this feeling must be love; I've never felt anything like this for anyone before, and I cannot imagine feeling it again. All that's left is to prove it to him, because I can't say it… at least, not yet.

A knock interrupts my thoughts, and I return my attention to reality. "Come in."

Florian enters. "I'm sorry I took so long," he says.

I shake my head. "That's all right. Please, sit down." He raises an eyebrow at the sudden formality, and I grin. "Humour me."

Once he obeys, I set aside my cigar and hold up the book in which I've recorded his debts. "I'm sure you recognize this?"

Florian nods once. "How could I forget it?"

"Good." Before I can reconsider, I throw the book into the fireplace. The pages crackle as they ignite, and I turn back to Florian in time to catch his expression of open-mouthed surprise.

"As of this moment," I declare, "your debt is erased. There is no longer anything tying you to me; if you want to, you can leave here tonight, and never come back." It's only because I'm so confident that he won't do this that I can speak of it so easily.

Florian stares at me for a few seconds before speaking. "Our relationship will change, then… if I choose to stay."

Uncertainty stabs through me at the word 'if', but I manage to hold it in check. I very much doubt that a few hours could have completely reversed Florian's wishes. "Only on the most mundane levels," I reply steadily. "First, you will no longer need to work for me: if you stay, it will be as my guest, not as my servant. Regardless of whether you choose to stay, or to seek employment elsewhere, I will provide you with an allowance, to be deposited on a monthly basis into an account I will set up for you." I lean back in my chair. "I believe that's all, unless you can think of something more?"

"Not offhand." He inhales sharply, and crosses his legs. "This is more than generous of you, Noir, and I apologize for having to ask… but why are you doing this? Didn't you tell me this morning that you had manufactured most of those debts in order to keep me here, with you? Does this mean that--"

I cut him off. "Nothing of the sort." I glance back at the fireplace, and see the notebook's cover crumble into cinders. "It's true that I manufactured the debts to keep you here. However, I realized today that I don't want you here because you have to be. I don't want to chain you any longer. I want to know, each time I see you here, that the choice was yours… that there was a choice." I meet his eyes. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Noir. Thank you." He smiles, but says nothing more, and worry eventually gets the better of me.

"You are staying, of course?" I'm finally forced to say.

Judging from his expression, I might have asked him which continent we live on. "Well, I don't know," he says, and his smile turns devilish. "With that allowance, I could probably live very comfortably on my own…"

I smile back, reassured. "Consider your allowance revoked, then."

"Ever the tyrant." His expression softens again. "Of course I'm staying."

I do my best to feign indifference. "As you wish." I rise from my chair, but stop him as he goes to do the same. "One more thing. Close your eyes."

He hesitates, but only for the briefest instant. For a moment, I watch him, and revel in his trust. Not so very long ago, he wasn't even comfortable sharing a dinner table with me, and now--

"I'm starting to feel a bit self-conscious, Noir," he says.

I chuckle under my breath, and the sound comes out as more of a grunt. "Sorry." I walk around my desk and stop behind his chair. His face twitches at the breeze of my passage, and he sits up a bit straighter as I lean against the back of his chair.

I reach for his tie pin, and slowly extract it from its place. He tenses, and opens his mouth, but I slip my free hand around his neck and gently place two fingertips against his lips. "Don't worry. Trust me."

The tension in his shoulders does not abate, but he does refrain from speaking, and I suppose that I can be satisfied with that. "Thank you," I say. "It'll be fast. I promise."

I drop the tie pin into one of my pockets, and withdraw my mother's topaz brooch from another. Ever since I got it back, I've been toying with the idea of passing it on to Florian, but the moment has never seemed right, and I've always been unsure of how he'd receive it. Now, though, I reflect as I fasten it in place of his tie clip and back away, there couldn't be a more perfect gift.

"You can open your eyes," I say.

Since I'm standing behind him, I don't know whether he exercises this privilege. However, I am able to watch as his hand traces the surface of the topaz; I observe the slight jolt of his arm as his fingers pass from one facet to another.

"I can't accept this," he says, and turns in his chair. The brooch is beautiful on him, but it's very possible that I'd think that of any piece of jewellery.

"Of course you can. If it's not to your taste, then accept it as a favour to me."

His fingers rise to touch the brooch again. "No… that's not what I meant. This brooch is so important to you. It's a symbol of what your parents shared, of your lives together…" He raises his other hand, and begins to fumble with the clasp. "I can't."

"Yes, you can!" I kneel in front of him, and take his hands in mine. "It's perfect for you, Florian, because of all that, because of what it represents." I interlace my fingers with his. "I want to give you this as a concrete token of what I feel for you. I want you to be able to look at it, and never doubt me again. More than that, though… I want it to become a symbol of everything that I hope we'll get to share."

Florian's face turns a soft shade of pink, and he bows his head, likely out of embarrassment. "Well, when you put it that way…" he says, "…how can I do anything but accept?" Our eyes meet just long enough for him to say, "I only wish I could express my gratitude properly."

"Well, if you ask me, you're doing a pretty good job." I grin, and release his hands. "The brooch looks good on you, by the way."

His response makes me laugh. "You'd say that about anything."

Florian

"Remind me again why we're doing this."

I smile at Noir over my shoulder as I put on my coat. "Because winter's going to be over soon, and I want to see the grounds one last time before the snow melts."

"I see." Noir's frown intimates a displeasure sharp enough to cleave rock. "And I have to come because…"

"Because you've been inside for too long again, and I want company." I take his hand, and drag him through the front door. "Come on."

His frown deepens, but he yields to me. "You're acting like a child. Would you like me to call Noel's father and arrange a play date?"

"Don't think you're getting away from me that easily." I pull him down the front steps, through the drive, and onto the side lawn. "Just five minutes. If you really want to go inside after that, I won't stop you."

He snorts, and I smile more broadly at the puff of vapour from his mouth. "Thank you. I feel so privileged to have your permission to return to my own home."

I sigh theatrically. "Oh, Noir… just enjoy it." I meet his eyes, and soften my own. "For me?"

"Five minutes," he growls.

I let go of his hand and drift through the back garden, over the spot where Laila meant to plant a rosebush last year. The air is crisp in my lungs, but not uncomfortably so: spring has already begun to temper its chill. I exhale expectantly, in anticipation of the season's change, in anticipation of new beginnings.

"Have you frozen solid already?" Noir asks, and I snap out of my poetic reverie.

"Not quite." I walk over to one of the stone benches, brush the snow from it, and sit. "My mother and I would do this, every year… we'd go outside just before spring came, to bid winter farewell. At those times, she was always so optimistic, so full of hope for the future…" I look down at the show beneath my feet. "It was almost as though she actually believed that, even when our entire life was crumbling down around us, everything would be all right, as long as spring was coming."

I hear Noir brush the snow from the opposite end of the bench, and then he's sitting next to me, almost close enough to touch. "Hope is precious enough to take wherever you can find it. Anything that enables you to face the next day with some measure of bravery is worth having."

"I suppose," I say as I sit up straight, and tilt my head in his direction, "but I've always believed that it was better to face reality as it is, rather than rely on delusion."

Noir sniffs. "That's because you're strong. You've never needed to use a delusion as a crutch."

"Do you think?" I cast my gaze out over the snow-covered garden once again.

His arm settles comfortably around my shoulders, and I allow myself to be drawn against him. "I know you're strong. You've proven it to me over and over again, since the night I met you." He pauses. "I've often envied your strength."

I laugh. "That's ridiculous."

I feel him shift against me, and sense his gaze on the top of my head. "Why?"

"Because you're so much stronger than I am."

He clicks his tongue. "There are many different kinds of strength, Florian. I don't deny my own, but I can't help wishing that I had yours as well."

I nod against his chest. "I understand. I feel the same way much of the time."

Noir chuckles, and I feel the reverberation of the sound in his chest an instant before I hear it. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

"Most definitely." I push the sleeve of my coat up to check my watch. "Your tour of duty is over, by the way. The five minutes are up."

In response, he tightens his hold on me. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Finding this little outing more pleasant than you thought it would be?" I tease.

"Are you complaining?"

I sigh, and drape my arm over him loosely. "Of course not."

As long as we're together, I can't imagine having reason to complain of anything ever again.

-----

Author's Endnotes:

This being the end of the story, I'd like to send a general thank-you to all of the people who have stuck with it this far. I sincerely hope that all of you have enjoyed it as much as those who have reviewed seemed to. It's been a great pleasure to share my work with you, and I thank you all for being so supportive of it, whether that support took the form of continued reviews or silent reading. Each one of you is a blessing beyond accounting.

Best wishes to everyone!

Guardian


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